


Hooked

by dirtbagtrashcat



Series: night & day [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Banter, Canon Compliant, Chocobros - Freeform, Fishing, Fluff, Found Family, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Mutual Pining, Pining, Promptis - Freeform, Prompto's got a big dumb crush but it's fine because no one will ever know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:21:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27887464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtbagtrashcat/pseuds/dirtbagtrashcat
Summary: Just a comfy lil promptis slow burn, written alongside my current FFXV replay! Strap in for some light pining, easy banter & comfy moments with the boys._________“So what is it about fishing, anyway?”Noct doesn’t flinch, because Noct is never caught off guard. He does, however, dart a bemused glance over his shoulder. Then he frowns and considers the question.“Well,” he says eventually. “I like fish.”Prompto snorts.“Yeah, buddy, and I like steak, but I don’t go on a six hour killing spree every time I see a dualhorn. It’s gotta be about the process, right? So what is it?”
Relationships: Gladiolus Amicitia & Prompto Argentum, Prompto Argentum & Ignis Scientia, Prompto Argentum & Noctis Lucis Caelum, Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum
Series: night & day [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2195688
Comments: 34
Kudos: 110





	1. gone fishing

**Author's Note:**

> i’m replaying FFXV and i missed these boys so much that i found myself compelled to do a little write-along! i don’t have any over-arching structure in mind, so this will probably just be a bunch of cozy lil vignettes expanding on choice moments from the game. maybe i’ll build a more cohesive narrative arc later on, but in the interim, strap in for fluff, banter, extremely mutual pining, & comfy moments with the boys!

Prompto has only been hanging out with the prince of Lucis for a few weeks when Noct first asks him out on a fishing trip.

Noct’s tone is deceptively casual, but Prompto can sense a strange urgency behind it. He hasn’t known the prince long, but he’s already learning to read his moods. Every day it gets easier to squint through Noct’s mask of decorum and spy what sits behind it: insecurity, frustration, pleasure.

This time, though, Prompto doesn’t really know what to make of it.

“Fishing?” he echoes, face scrunched.

Noct nods. He doesn’t _look_ like he’s kidding.

“Is that like, a euphemism I don’t know?” Prompto asks uncertainly. “Am I out of touch? Noct, am I not hip??”

“No,” Noct tells him seriously, “you’re hip.”

“Thank Shiva.”

“And it’s not a euphemism,” the prince continues. “Or -- I guess it’s a euphemism for catching a fish.”

“Okay, okay,” Prompto tells him, nodding cunningly. “Keep your secrets.”

Noct gives him a tolerant look. His expression shutters slightly, goes smooth and neutral as he says, “So you’ll come.”

It’s not phrased like a question, but Prompto is getting an increasingly solid grasp on when Noct is actually looking for an answer.

“Of course, dude!” he assures him. “How else am I gonna learn what _fishing_ stands for?”

Noct rolls his eyes and turns back toward his homework.

###

The spot is a short stretch outside of Insomnia, and is not the idyllic scene that Prompto expected. The old, clearly artificial lake is lined with concrete, and filled with more mud than water. But Noct looks at it like it’s the shiniest, most well-stocked arcade in the city.

“Nice place,” Prompto says, giving it a critical squint. Noct huffs air through his nose, which Prompto considers a success.

“It’s a shithole, huh?” the prince snickers. “A prospecting company was supposed to bulldoze this place a few years back, but it’s the last spot in a dozen miles where you can catch a snakehead wild. I shouldn’t have said anything,” he sighs. “As soon as I mentioned it to my dad, construction shut down. I think he must have called in a favor. It’s so unnecessary.”

“Totally,” Prompto agrees, mostly on autopilot. It’s kinda funny, thinking about the fact that some parents actually pay attention to what makes their kid happy -- that some parents actually go out of their way to support those things.

Well. It’s not _that_ funny.

“But you like coming here?” he asks, because there’s no point in going down that road.

“Yeah,” Noct admits. “I like it. I’ll ask Specs to fry up the snakehead tonight. You’ve never had _really_ fresh fish, right? You won’t even believe it.”

“I already don’t!”

Noct snorts and turns toward the water. He reaches out, stretching his hand toward the open air to his right, and for a second Prompto thinks that Noct expects him to -- what, take his hand? Give him a high five?

Instead, the air around his palm shimmers; the midday sun twists, turns silvery and strange. Glittering blue light blazes into being, half-blinding him for a moment. A moment later it’s gone, and in its place, Noct holds a perfectly ordinary fishing rod.

Prompto lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. For good measure, he pulls in another, and lets that one out too.

He _knows_ , obviously, that his new best friend is the prince of Lucis -- inheritor of the blessings of the astrals; wielder of the power of kings. But it’s one thing to find out that your buddy has a hilariously well-manicured home chef, and quite another to watch him conjure household appliances out of thin air.

“Uh,” he attempts.

Noct isn’t listening. He’s already casting a line, wearing a look of absolute peace that Prompto’s never seen before, on Noct or maybe anyone. It’s -- kinda beautiful, actually. His brow is smooth, eyes half-lidded, all tension drained from his jaw. He’s totally blissed out.

For the first time in his young life, Prompto shuts his mouth and takes a moment to just watch.

For maybe 10 minutes, he’s honestly riveted. Noct is always focused, even when they’re just standing in line at the arcade or eating lunch on the roof, but this is a whole nother level. His stance is loose but vigilant, like a cat biding its time before the pounce. Prompto’s been watching this whole time, and he’s pretty sure he still hasn’t seen Noct blink. In spite of fishing being an old man sport for old men, it’s the most _alive_ that Noct has ever looked.

The first time Noct wrenches a thrashing, gleaming streak of silver out of the murk and into the light, he looks at his prize like a new father meeting his firstborn. Noct’s forearms flex as he wrestles for traction, but the fish puts up a good fight. When it cracks Noct across the jaw with a lucky twist of its tail, Prompto almost pisses himself laughing.

When Noct finally slams the beast’s head against the pier and turns to flash Prompto a toothy grin of undisguised triumph, it’s the last straw; Prompto is _cooked_. He stands there and grins back and vows that he will never tire of watching this shining boy, this impossible marvel beaming and laughing and doing what he does best.

Then Noct fishes for four more hours, and Prompto immediately tires of it.

Oh, Noct is still a pleasing enough sight. It’s _Noct_ , for Shiva’s sake. He’s, like, the prettiest thing Prompto’s ever seen -- and that’s not personal, just an objective fact. But Prompto can’t even sit still to play _videogames_ for an hour without getting distracted. Patience is really not his thing.

He makes it another 20 minutes before he falls asleep on the dock.

So the next time Noct asks him along on a fishing trip, he -- well, he still says yes, of course. Noct could ask Prompto to accompany him to a colonoscopy, and Prompto would probably say yes. He just asks Noct to bring along a handheld console, too.

Unfortunately, there are no consoles allowed on official Crownsguard escort gigs. Prompto knows because he asked, and then asked again in the hopes of getting a different answer. In a sense, he did get a different answer. Ignis just said no, whereas Gladio barked a laugh and then pulled another soldier over and asked Prompto to say it again.

“No room for distractions,” Gladio explained when he was finished laughing in Prompto’s face. “It’s the real world out there, kid. While you’re busy pushing buttons, a ceourl could be making off with the prince.”

“I’m pretty sure I’d hear the screams,” Prompto argued on principle. But he dropped it, and packed light.

So Prompto knows the score. When Noct’s eyes dilate at the sight of the weathered little pier maybe 12 seconds after they pull into Galdin Quay, he doesn’t waste any time. He turns forcefully away and fires a lopsided grin at the others.

“You guys wanna go swimming?”

###

They strip down on the pier, leaving their clothes in a heap near Noct so they don’t get too sandy. Prompto pointedly ignores Gladio’s jeering whistle at his ridiculous tank top tan, and pretends not to notice the fact that Ignis is struggling not to laugh.

“Screw you guys,” he says sullenly. “Hey! Noct!”

No response. Prompto tries an exaggerated bow, a poor man’s imitation of the one he saw Iggy pull when they left Regis’ court.

“Oh, most esteemed and admired Prince Noctis!”

“ _Hush_ ,” Ignis hisses. “Exercise a _modicum_ of discretion, if you please.”

Prompto rolls his eyes and trots down the pier.

“Noct,” he says again, this time from right behind him.

“Mh.”

“We’re going swimming.”

At this, Noct’s head swings around. His eyes track down Prompto’s face, linger on his collarbone, where the tanline is clearest, and Prompto feels his face get hot. He waits for Noct to make fun of him, but the prince doesn’t say anything. After a moment, his eyes flick back up to Prompto’s face.

Prompto shrugs and keeps talking.

“We’ll just be a little ways down the beach, so you can’t throw a hook through anyone’s eye on accident. Any fish try to swim off with you, you just holler, okay? You _know_ I’m not gonna let ‘em get away with it.”

That earns him a lazy smile and a dry, “my hero.”

For the barest instant after Prompto turns to go, Noct seems to lean after him, as though suspended between his best friend and the rod in his hands -- and then the line goes taut, and the prince is gone.

###

It doesn’t take long for Prompto to get his fill of getting the shit kicked out of him by Noct’s loyal shield. Prompto likes Gladio, but when Noct’s not around, the big guy kinda makes his insecurities flare up. He can’t shake the suspicion that he might embody everything Gladio hates: he’s sensitive and soft; he bruises easily, both emotionally and otherwise, and he’s slow and weak with sword and stave alike. Prompto knows that Gladio tried to convince Noct not to bring him on this trip, because Noct told him so. (“He’s worried about you,” Noct insisted at the time, but Prompto finds that kinda hard to believe).

Sometimes, hanging out with Iggy and Gladio makes Prompto feel like a kid. It’s different with Noct. Noct grew up with all this crazy, high-stakes royal stuff, but somehow he ended up… a little repressed, maybe, but still a mostly normal 20-something. It’s probably cause Iggy and Gladio never really got to be kids; the prince has been their full-time job since they were in diapers. And it shows. They’re just so _competent_.

When Gladio throws him so far into the ocean that Prompto’s feet can’t even scrape the bottom, he decides that he’s had enough.

“Okay, you got me,” he concedes, paddling back to the shore. “You were right, okay? You _can_ actually throw me like a football. Honestly, I don’t know why I was so sure you couldn’t.”

“Told you so,” Gladio says, flashing a cocky grin. Iggy rolls his eyes tolerantly.

“Yes, we're all very impressed with your brutish strength,” he says, with withering sarcasm. “I'm sure that you will have much cause to _throw Prompto like a football_ in the battles to come.”

“Hey, you never know!”

Prompto snickers and flops back onto the sand.

“This football needs a _break_ ,” he sighs. “I’m gonna go check on Noct. You guys need anything?”

“Perhaps we, too, should retire for the night,” Ignis says thoughtfully, squinting at the nearest haven. “If we hope to dine before sundown, I ought to begin preparations on the night’s victuals.”

“C’mon,” Gladio wheedles, catching Iggy’s wrist and pulling him back into the surf. “One more round. Now that the pipsqueak’s tapped out, we can get serious.”

“Hey!” Prompto protests.

“What? It’s true!”

“That doesn’t mean you have to say it,” Prompto sniffs, all ruffled feathers and injured pride, and he stomps back toward the dock.

“Tell Noct that dinner will be ready shortly,” Iggy calls to his retreating back. “Be sure that he returns before it grows cold.”

###

Noct is right where they left him, a living statue in the fading light. Prompto watches so intently that he trips over his feet and has to pinwheel his arms to recover his balance. Rolling his eyes at himself, he sidles up to Noct.

“So what _is_ it about fishing, anyway?”

Noct doesn’t flinch, because Noct is never caught off-guard. He does, however, dart a distantly surprised glance over his shoulder. Then he frowns and considers the question. Noct is maybe the only person in the entire world who occasionally takes Prompto seriously.

“Well,” he says, after a moment. The rusty glow of sunset catches in his hair, pools in his eyes and paints them purple. “I like fish.”

Prompto snorts violently.

“Yeah, buddy, and I like steak, but I don’t go on a six hour killing spree every time I see a dualhorn. It’s gotta be about the process, right? So what is it?”

Noct looks like he’s honest-to-astrals never considered that.

“I guess so, huh?” he says quietly. “Huh. I guess maybe it’s about… Awareness? Like those meditation exercises Specs used to make us do, but instead of closing my eyes, it’s like I open them even wider -- like my whole body is one big open eye, just… taking it all in. If that makes sense?” he adds, sounding a touch self-conscious. Noct almost never gets self-conscious, because he almost never does anything that’s not spectacularly cool. Except for the fishing. The fishing is not that cool.

“It does,” Prompto promises, eyes wide and earnest, and his chest swells at the small, secret smile it wins him. “That’s pretty cool, Noct. You’re like, achieving enlightenment out here. Maybe I should learn,” he says and then immediately regrets saying, because Noct’s eyes light up and Prompto will never say no to him even though, astrals help him, he does _not_ have the patience for this kind of endurance sport.

“I could teach you right now,” Noct says, just a little too fast. Prompto snickers.

“Getting a little late, buddy. The guys have probably finished dinner by now. Oh, yeah! I was supposed to tell you to come to dinner.”

“I thought we might have fish,” Noct says mournfully. Prompto snorts again.

“Maybe if you ask nicely, he’ll make some for dessert.”

###

Prompto is well aware of his little crush on Noct. In spite of what the others might think, he’s not an idiot. His pulse quickens when the prince steps too close. His skin feels warm where it brushes Noct’s. Prompto _knows_.

It’s just that, well… What does it matter? They’re on their way to Noct’s wedding, for Shiva’s sake. _To someone else_. Someone who is actually, literally perfect: a shining paragon of the human spirit, delicate and clever and good. And then over here, aaaall the way on the other end of the spectrum, there’s Prompto, who is maybe not even a person at all. (Or maybe he is? He doesn’t _feel_ like a machine, but how would he know? On a good day, Prompto can usually assure himself that his barcode isn’t his fault, that he was the victim, probably. But they aren’t all good days.)

That line of thinking isn’t gonna help anyone; he thrusts it away. In a few days, they’ll get to Altissia, and Prompto will sit on a bench and watch his best friend marry the Oracle. Maybe he’ll make a speech, and he’ll definitely cry for about twelve different reasons, and then he’ll put this stupid crush in the ground for good.

They just have to run one last errand for this guy Dino, and the whole thing -- him and Noct, back to back, huffed laughter and quiet smiles, the brightest spot in his whole miserable life -- will be over. Once Noct has a wife, he won’t need Prompto anymore; he’ll discard him in favor of--

No, that’s not right. Prompto might not get _why_ , but he knows that Noct cares about him, in his own (probably much more appropriate) way. Noct isn’t going to throw Prompto away just because he has a girlfriend -- _wife_. He made Prompto part of his retinue, didn’t he? Gave him a uniform and everything. He took Prompto’s hand and slipped it through a rift in space and into the Armiger, the blue-white blaze of his own heart. Prompto’s not no one to him. It’s only their nights together that Prompto is going to lose.

...It’s a hell of a loss.

By the end of their senior year, Prompto was basically living at Noct’s apartment. After Noct’s duties were done and Prompto had finished his training, they shared in the strange, slippery hours in the dead of night. While the rest of the world slept, they stretched out in front of the TV, and wrestled for the right to dibs Player One -- mostly a formality, since Noct always won. Later, Noct lounged against the kitchen counter while Prompto struggled to make him a snack (“Is mustard on toast okay? Why are you laughing at me???”).

But once Noct marries Lady Lunafreye, they’ll probably sleep in the same bed, and unlike Noct, Luna won’t want some pathetic stray dog taking up space on the couch. When they hear a weird noise in the dark, it won’t be Prompto who scoots closer to the comforting solidity of Noct; and when when Noct reaches out, it’ll be Luna’s fingers he squeezes. Maybe he’ll pull her closer, and--

 _Nope_ , he’ll cut that off right there. It’s pointless, lingering on this stuff. Worse, it’s pathetic. Once Noct is married, Prompto is just going to have to get a life -- specifically, one that doesn’t completely revolve around his best friend.

Really, he’s lucky: his position means he gets to keep Noct, sort of, long after he thought he would have lost him. It’s enough, _more_ than enough. It’s a lot more than he deserves, after all the nights he’s spent fantasizing about his best friend like a total creepshow. Prompto’s grateful. He is! Noct never should have looked his way, and now he gets to guard his back till the end of the world. How could he possibly ask for more?

Tomorrow, he’ll get on a boat and sit in a crowd and watch Noct pledge his life to someone else. But today they have one last errand to run, and Prompto intends to make the most of it.

###

Prompto is so out of his league.

He already knew that, obviously. Noct and his scary godparents started combat training when they were still in diapers. Of course Prompto’s little half-year Crownsguard crash-course wasn’t gonna catch him up entirely. When they set out, he knew he might find himself squaring off with rampaging dualhorns and coeurls and maybe even actual daemons. But how could he have anticipated _this_? He went twenty-two years without ever seeing a zu. He’d planned to go a hundred more.

Even with its wings folded back and its head tucked into its neck, the slumbering zu is bigger than a school bus, all beaks and fangs and wings on wings, like six different monsters thrown in a blender and set to puree. It looks like it eats six guys twice his size for breakfast and goes back for seconds. It could kill him in an eyeblink -- one _clack_ and Prompto would be gone, replaced by a heap of bone shards and wet mulch. It’s bigger than death and older than time and obviously getting close to it spells certain, unavoidable death, so _why the hell are the others creeping past it like everything is fine_?

Astrals help him, Prompto is _so_ out of his league. He never should have come here. He’s not a soldier, he’s a soft city boy with six months of weapons training and a key card to the Armiger. His credentials couldn’t even get him a security gig at a children’s museum, so what the hell is he doing _here_ , toddling around with the kind of big steely hero types who look at a zu and see a perfectly surmountable roadblock? Prompto’s not even a sheep among wolves; at least sheep have hooves, or maybe horns. Prompto’s a _tadpole_ among wolves. While the others run around howling and snarling and bringing down live elk, he's stuck flopping around in the dust, gasping for breath and wriggling uselessly.

He forces one foot forward. He can hear himself whimpering and he’s only _just_ lucid enough to feel embarrassed by it, but he can’t seem to quiet it, because the fear is so, so much bigger than the shame. After everything he went through to get here -- the contempt of the Crownsguard who’d trained their whole lives for missions like this; the whole awful training montage with Gladio, and all those times that Iggy pulled him aside and asked over and over if he was sure, really sure, if he realized that pledging his life to someone was no small sacrifice -- after swearing up and down to everyone who asked that he was ready for this, Prompto’s frozen in place, and he’s _crying_ , literally weeping from sheer animal panic.

“ _Hey_ ,” murmurs his favorite voice, whisper-quiet. Prompto’s gaze jerks up in time to see a warm hand slip into his.

“Don’t look at it,” Noct breathes. “Look at me. Move when I do.”

Humiliating as it is, Prompto relaxes. He is, undeniably, out of his league. He’s never gonna look at a bird again without getting heart palpitations. But they didn’t bring him here to fight, did they? He’s here for Noct. He's here to keep the prince in good spirits, amused and entertained. He's not a soldier, he's a -- a jester, or something.

Prompto can live with that.

###

After Insomnia falls, Noct drives them around until 2 in the morning in search of a fishing spot.

It’s messed up, seeing him so out of control. Not that Noct is usually super disciplined or anything. He can be pushy and needy and sullen, and he’s prone to pouting when he doesn’t get his way. But even when Noct’s pissed off or sulky or outright furious, he does it quietly, with shadowed brows and dangerous glances. He doesn’t shout. He’s never _splashy_.

Right now, though, Noct is all over the place. His breaths come quick and shallow; from the passenger seat, Prompto can see the flash of white teeth in the dark. Noct is lashing out, snapping at Gladio and sneering at Ignis. When Prompto tried to reach for him, Noct slapped his hand away and snarled. _How could you possibly understand? The only person who cares about you is me. What do you have to lose?_

It stung -- it _still_ stings -- but Prompto can hardly blame him. Noct went to bed a prince and woke up an orphan: fatherless, penniless, the heir to nothing and nowhere. Prompto's hurt is nothing in the wake of Noct's grief.

He wants to say something, to do _something_ , but there’s nothing he can say that will make this better. All he can do is slump quietly beside Noct, and try to be subtle about the worried looks he casts his way.

A flash of white on the side of the road: headlights glancing off of water.

“Noct!” Prompto cries, and then flinches as Noct’s murderous glare drills through him. _Don’t be selfish, don’t complain, this isn’t about you_. “I saw a fishing spot,” he says quietly. “Um. Right-hand side.”

Noct’s face softens, almost imperceptibly. The dread in his eyes doesn’t waver, but a bit of hostility drains from his face.

“Thanks,” he says, so quietly that Prompto can’t be fully sure that he said it at all, and pulls over.

“It’s dangerous at night,” Ignis observes, his tone clinical. “It would be unwise to--”

“It’s _fine_ ,” Noct snarls. Prompto watches Iggy’s mouth tighten.

“I’ll watch his back,” he says, the words clipped with urgency. “You guys can wait at the haven; someone should get some rest. I’ll keep watch, and if anything comes out of the dark I’ll -- I’ll _scream_ , and you can come running.”

Ignis’ eyes narrow.

“There is little margin for error--”

“I know,” Prompto vows. “I know, honest, I won’t screw up. We’ll be fine--” He considers what he’s saying and changes tracks. “No one’s gonna eat us. Promise.”

“Very well,” Ignis sighs. “But, Prompto. If you do see anything, be sure to scream _loud_.”

Prompto gives him a pained smile and settles in, as far as he can get from Noct while still sitting on the same dock.

Before he casts, Noct glares over his shoulder.

“I hope you’re not here to _cheer me_ \--”

“I’m not,” Prompto assures him. “I mean it. I’m just here so mama Iggy will let you do what you need to do. Pretend I’m not even here.”

Again, there’s that flicker of softness; just for a second, Noct’s guard drops, and Prompto can see a flash of the grief that looms behind Noct’s bristling hostility and bladed words.

“Thanks,” Noct mutters, turning away, and he casts.

Prompto watches the surrounding forest, mostly, because it would be pretty embarrassing if he got them both killed after the little monologue he made for Iggy. But he also watches Noct. After a few minutes, he can see the tension between Noct’s shoulders unspool a little, and for the first time since they got the news, Prompto relaxes a little too.

He watches moonlight play off the river and thinks about what Noct said about being a receiver: no thoughts or feelings, just sensation and reaction. Light dancing on the water and shadows darting beneath; wind on the water, shattering the reflected sky into long, angular shards. The breeze on his face; the air warm and wet.

Back home, on nights like this, he and Noct would sneak onto the roof of Noct’s apartment complex and film over-the-top, elaborate fight scenes; or else they’d stretch out on the patio and look up at the stars. But there is no _back home_ anymore. Home is gone, crushed under the Empire’s heel and walled off beyond their reach. It’ll never be home again, not until Noct figures out how to take down an entire _empire_ with only his three best friends for backup.

Prompto thinks about going crazy. He _feels_ crazy. Usually when he feels like this he talks to Noct, but he can’t, because Noct has it so, so much worse and is holding it together anyway, breathing through it and burying his grief and catching fish after fish until they’re piled high on the dock, a sparkling midden of once-life, now-meat.

Prompto feels himself drifting off; he jolts to his feet and slaps his cheeks with both hands. The sound startles Noct, who glances back. Prompto cringes reflexively, readies himself for the hit, but all he sees in Noct’s face is a quiet kind of melancholy.

“You’re tired, huh?” the prince asks softly.

“What? No! Don’t worry about _me_ , dude, I’m always fine.”

But Noct is already thrusting the fishing rod back into the Armiger.

“We’re meeting Cor tomorrow,” he says softly. “We should get some sleep if we wanna be on our game.”

Prompto searches his face for resentment or frustration. When he finds none, he shrugs.

“Whatever you want, dude.” He’s not sure what compels him to add, “Where you go, I go.”

He’s outright shocked to see the ghost of a smile flicker over Noct’s face.

“Yeah,” the prince says quietly, “I’ve been getting that impression. C’mon,” he adds, tugging Prompto to his feet, “I’m calling it. Oh, and uh. Thanks, Prom.”

Prompto lights up so bright they can probably see it from camp.

“You got it, dude.”


	2. magic bullet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noct learns some new tricks. Prompto get kidnapped by a snake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for canon-typical violence

The trek to the holy tomb is tense.

Noct has his feelings under wraps again, which kinda makes Prompto feel like shit to think about, actually. If Noct was just quiet by nature, it would be one thing. But he’s _so_ careful, so constantly, rigorously controlled, as though Lucis itself hung in the balance of his every lapse in decorum.

Prompto doesn’t like thinking that his reserved, quietly goofy best friend might have been an outright goober if he hadn’t been forced to be a public figure from the day of his birth. He hates the idea that Noct was still a kid when his grownups told him that if he was going to feel sad or mad or hurt, he’d just have to do so quietly, where no one could see it. He can’t bear to think that there’s more to Noct — that there’s _more Noct_ in there, walled away where no one ever gets to see it.

(Prompto actually _does_ kind of like the idea that only _he_ gets to see it. But that’s selfishness, plain and simple.)

“Just a little further,” Cor says gruffly — Cor the _actual_ Immortal, a living legend, who is escorting them to a holy tomb like this is a normal Tuesday for him, and the absolute strangeness of it jolts Prompto back into the present. He follows behind the others, does his best to contribute to a fight that Cor picks with a monster that is _clearly_ out of their league, and then stands close-but-not-so-close-as-to-be-inappropriate while Cor explains about the power of kings.

“All you have to do is reach out,” Cor tells Noct gravely. “Your ancestors know your blood. They will answer your call.”

Noct nods solemnly. He’s been the perfect prince for the length of Cor’s visit, decisive and stoic and graceful. Still, Prompto can’t help noticing how pale he looks. He lingers on the ghostly pallor of Noct’s skin; the purple hollows round his eyes. Noct is mourning his _entire_ _life_ , and still the people around him won’t stop making demands. _Fight this monster, Noct. Prove your strength, Noct. Dismantle the Empire, Noct. Liberate Insomnia and awaken the power of kings and maybe do a kickflip while you do it, Noct._

Prompto’s got questions, too. Questions like: are you okay? Do you need to take a break? Is there anything I can do? What about if I step in another hundlegs nest, would that make you laugh? But he knows better than to ask.

Instead, he stands quietly by as Noct holds out a hand to the dead king.

The air turns heavy and strangely thin, making Prompto’s head swim, and a phantom sword forged from glittering blue light rises out of the coffin. It takes a moment to float and glimmer, bending the light all wrong, like he’s looking at it through a foot of water. Then it hoists itself higher, pivots in the air, and _skewers his best friend_.

Prompto chokes on a breath, weighs the costs of “coughing so loud you ruin the moment” against “death by asphyxiation” and easily chooses the latter. From where he stands, he can only see the back of Noct’s head. He couldn’t see Noct’s face when a spectral sword rammed through him with a sound like shattering glass, scattering blades of light in all directions. He _did_ see Noct lift a hand to his chest and clutch at it briefly, before his back straightened and his hands dropped to his sides. Was it reverence moving through his face, or fear? How did it feel? Is he okay??

Of course he’s okay. Noct is the perfect prince. Cor is visibly relieved to see that Noct is meeting expectations, packing away his own grief in service of the greater good. The guys are elated, thrilled to find that their investment has paid off. Their lives were pledged to this kid before they were even born, and now here he is, every bit the chosen hero that they put their faith in.

And Prompto?

Prompto doesn’t know what to feel.

He does, however, pull Noct aside before bed that night. Iggy and Gladio have turned in for the night. They crawled into the tent just a few minutes after they finished packing up Iggy’s cookware, and soon the patter of their banter gave way to Iggy’s whistling snore and Gladio’s rattling one.

Before Noct can follow them in, Prompto catches him by the arm.

“Hey,” he says quietly, leaning in close to keep from waking the others. “Sorry, I’m not trying to be lame, but… What happened today, at the tomb. It, um, it kinda looked like it hurt. Did it hurt?”

To his dismay, Noct’s breath hitches.

“Yeah,” he breathes, his voice as soft as distant wind. His expression is distant, solemn — he’s not complaining, just observing. “A lot, actually.”

Prompto’s chest tightens. It _hurts_ , thinking about Noct getting hurt.

“What’d it feel like?” he asks, leaning helplessly forward. “Everyone was so stoked, I didn’t want to kill the vibe, but… _Ramuh_. When that thing shot through you…”

 _I wanted to die. I wanted to stand in the way for you, take the hit for you. It’s your duty to protect the world and I know I can’t protect it for you but Astrals, I_ want _to._

He settles for, “It sounded like breaking glass. For a second I thought we were all gonna walk outta there with a few extra piercings.”

Noct snorts, and the tension in Prompto’s chest eases slightly.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “That’s how it felt, actually. Or — maybe more like shards of ice than glass. Cold, but in that way that touching something really cold can feel hot.” He hesitates before adding, “I could feel it… _lodge_ in me. Not like with the Armiger,” he’s quick to clarify, and Prompto takes a moment to grapple with the idea of loving someone who can categorize multiple experiences of weapons _lodging_ in him. “I felt it go through me, except that in all the places where you'd usually feel the blade scrape through you, instead there was just this — searing cold.”

Prompto’s heart twists in his chest, thuds weakly against his sternum.

“And you have to do it a bunch more times?” he asks miserably. Noct laughs. It’s not a happy sound.

“Twelve, I guess,” he says. “It’s fine,” he’s quick to add. “I’ll get used to it. I was just surprised.”

“Hey, I know!” Prompto trips over himself to clarify. “I’m the one who brought it up; you were doing great on your own. Next time, though, you should… I don’t know,” he says helplessly. He thought he’d think of something before he got to the end of that sentence, he usually does, but what can he offer in the face of all this noble cosmic agony? “You should… bring a sweater?”

Noct huffs a laugh, a real one this time. He’s so close that Prompto can feel it on his face.

“Yeah,” he says drily. “I’m sure that’ll fix everything.”

“And the old kings will think you’re so fashionable!”

Noct snorts and shoulders him in the chest. As he turns to go, he hesitates.

“Hey,” he murmurs over his shoulder. “Thanks, Prom. Seriously. People don’t…”

Whatever he started to say, he seems to think better of it. He waves the words away, clearing them from the air like smoke.

“I appreciate it,” he says instead. “Thanks. You’re the only one who asks me stuff like that.”

And then, leaving Prompto to reel at the implications of the _implications_ of that, he slips through the flap and vanishes into the tent.

###

The next night, Prompto watches Noct draw lightning from a jagged heap of sparking stone and wonders why he hasn’t asked about it yet. While Iggy puts the finishing touches on dinner, Prompto sidles up to Noct.

“So does that like, jank up your body temperature or something?”

After yesterday, Noct is ready for him. He flashes a furtive grin.

“I don’t know,” he says, and holds out a hand. “You tell me.”

Prompto’s seen Noct draw elemental energy before, but it’s different up close. Power blazes violet behind his eyes. Threads of light sprout from the earth and twist toward his outstretched hand like tadpoles, like kite's tails. When it crackles through his palms, Prompto can see Noct’s veins glow through his skin.

Noct grins. Still pulling lightning from a stone, he grazes Prompto's knuckles with his own and snickers when an audible shock passes between them.

“ _Ow_ ,” Prompto yelps, jerking back. And after shooting Noct an appropriately injured glare: “Does _that_ hurt?”

Noct huffs a quiet laugh.

“Not really,” he says offhandedly. “It feels — hm. It’s different for different elements, I guess. With lightning, I mostly feel it in my veins — it’s like there are sparks fizzing through them, like I just got shot full of adrenaline. With ice, it’s more like I feel it in my—” he snickers, darts a self-conscious glance over his shoulder and lowers his voice. “...You ever jump into water so cold that you might shit yourself? It’s like that, but less.”

“Noct,” Prompto says seriously.

“Prompto.”

“Noct. Buddy. Light of my life. When you were first learning to channel ice… Did you ever shit yourself.”

Noct actually does a spit take, which means that Prompto can die happy.

“No way,” he swears, once he’s done hacking up a lung. “Have you _met_ me? I’m a pillar of dignity.”

“You _are_ , buddy, don’t get me wrong, you definitely are. I’m just saying, if anyone on Eos could look dignified while shitting themself—”

Noct conjures a fistful of ice to thrust down the back of Prompto’s shirt, and Prompto squeals.

###

Prompto thought he was getting used to all this magic stuff, and then the Titan beamed a psychic voicemail through Noct’s skull and into the soft grey meat behind it.

Fighting the Titan is — is — he doesn’t even know where to begin. It’s one big dissociative episode, two hours of his mind utterly rejecting the truth reported by his eyes. The fact that Noct can not only take a direct hit from the Titan but also _parry_ that blow is — it’s — Prompto doesn’t even know where to begin.

But it’s _after_ they shatter the Titan’s left arm that stuff starts getting really weird.

A few minutes after that weirdly charming, inexplicably helpful Empire official drops them near Wiz’s place, a little black dog bounds out of nowhere and stares at Noct with utmost solemnity. Umbra leads the gang into the woods, where they meet — hm. Prompto’s not sure. Some kind of time witch? Spirit magic given human form? Prompto’s good with machines: real, substantive things with clear rules and unwavering internal logic. All this magic stuff is _so_ not his bag.

“How come that… lady’s helping you out, anyways?” he asks Noct, after she vanishes. Noct snorts at him.

“Gentiana?” he asks, as though he doesn’t know exactly who Prompto means.

“That’s the one!” Prompto confirms cheerfully. “Is she like… your fairy godmother or something?”

This time even Ignis laughs.

“Gentiana is a messenger,” the advisor explains crisply. “A spirit faithful to the oracle.”

“...for real?”

Prompto conjures in his mind’s eye the woman they’d met in the woods. She’d had more presence than most of the people they meet, but she didn’t look like a _ghost_. Then again, _he_ doesn’t look like a robot, even though he’s got the barcode to prove it. Maybe people just come in a lot more types than he’d previously assumed.

###

When Noct touches Ramuh’s first runestone, Prompto can see something move through his face that he can’t make sense of. It’s frustrating, cause he's usually pretty good at reading Noct. Everyone thinks Noct's so hard to read, but it's not true. The prince emotes like anyone else, just.. a little more quietly.

This time, though, Noct’s mouth twitches and his brow knits with more heartache and despair than Prompto can make sense of, given that basically nothing is happening.

“What is it?” he asks helplessly. “Another headache?”

It’s not another headache.

Apparently Noct is having visions, or — soundions, or whatever the hell you call it when the divine email is getting beamed through your ears and not your eyes.

The guys are very blase about it.

“Divine voices in your head again, huh?” Gladio asks cheerfully. “Sounds risky. We should make sure you can fight through it.”

“Perhaps we ought to adapt your training to accommodate auditory distraction?” Ignis suggests. “The next time we spar, you could wear your headphones and listen to an audiobook, for example.”

“It’s not the same,” Noct grumbles. “It’s not like someone’s talking in my ear, it’s like they’re _thinking_ in my _head_.”

Prompto doesn’t like it either, but not because it’s a liability in combat. There are already so many parts of Noct’s life that Prompto can’t touch. It feels like with every new power that he gains, Noct slips just a little further away. If Noct can stand two feet away and _still_ be in a completely different world, how is Prompto ever supposed to close that gap?

For a terrifying second, Prompto thinks that he’s about to burst into tears, except that he _can’t_ — his whole purpose here is to keep it breezy, to raise Noct’s spirits and keep morale up. If he can’t even do that, what is he good for?

Hastily, he changes tracks.

“I could yell in your ear while Gladio knocks you around!” he offers helpfully. “I can yell _really_ loud.”

“Wow, really?” Noct deadpans. “I had no idea.”

“Hey!” he whines, extra loud on purpose. “No bullying! Anyway, you like that I’m loud!”

“I do,” Noct agrees easily.

“I don’t,” Gladio contributes helpfully.

“Thanks, Gladio.”

“I think it’s annoying.”

“ _Thanks, Gladio_.”

“Putting aside the debatable appeal of Prompto’s vociferous nature,” Ignis sighs, “we have two more runestones to locate before we may begin our hunt for the Regalia. Perhaps we ought to focus on the task at hand?”

“No one makes fun of Iggy when he uses thirty words to say _focus up_ ,” Prompto sulks, but he doesn’t argue.

###

The first two runestones are easy. The third is a _nightmare_.

For some reason, even though Ramuh is the god of storms — which, as far as Prompto knows, traditionally take place _outdoors_ — he buried his last runestone at the bottom of a big wet hole in the ground. Just looking at it gives Prompto the shivers. If he gets out of here alive, he’s gonna have nightmares for weeks. He might have to ask Iggy to loan him a few of their precious sleeping pills, even though it always makes Iggy purse his lips and give him an _I’m-not-mad-I’m-concerned_ stare. Unfortunately, the alternative is thrashing and whimpering in his sleep loud enough to wake the whole team, and he’s pretty sure Gladio would take issue with that.

They’ve logged some hours dungeon-crawling, though. Prompto’s been grinding for XP at every chance he gets. He’s got a few new tricks up his sleeve, too, like the rad Circular Saw that Noct let him fix up, which fires shock waves bristling with whirling blades. It’s a relief to have a decent short-range weapon for a change, especially in places like this. There’s not much a handgun can do when you’re backed into a corner by a raging Arachnae.

Unfortunately, his new toy doesn’t make the hellcave any less hellish. It’s bitterly cold, and Prompto can’t even put on his vest because it slows him down too much to nail those really tricky shots, where he drills hot lead through an imp’s eye or into the crack in a Ronin’s armor. Noct needs him at his best, his sharpest and most deadly. Prompto’s already so much weaker than the others. He can’t afford to make any compromises.

And the cold isn’t even the worst part. The worst part is the _sound_ he keeps hearing, just at the edge of his awareness: a soft, scraping kind of _ksshhhh_ , like nails raking dead dry flesh.

“Guuuys,” he wails miserably, for probably the millionth time. “Can’t you hear that?”

“Of course we can,” Iggy tells him tersely, winging a dagger at an imp hurtling toward Noct. “Yet we are wholly occupied addressing threats that have already presented themselves. If our unseen assailant attacks, we will destroy it; if it doesn’t, then it was no threat to begin with. Now would you _please_ focus on the foes at hand?”

Prompto obliterates the last imp with a whirlwind of sawblades and, as the guys relax, shoots a sullen glare at the back of Iggy’s head.

“I’m focused,” he mutters to himself.

From the corner of his eye, he notices Noct noticing him. Sure enough, a few steps later, the prince sidles up.

“That was a great hit back there,” he says quietly. “When you dropped four at once with that big blast. How’d you even get it to do that? Every time, I’m scared it’s finally gonna break for good.”

Prompto rolls his eyes, aware that he’s being handled. Still, it’s not Noct’s fault that Iggy’s acting like an overzealous schoolteacher.

“I rigged it to triple the output on the highest setting,” he admits. “The micro-combustion fries the engine for a few seconds, but you get exponential returns. _Big boom_ ,” he clarifies for Noct, who’s staring at him like he’s speaking in tongues.

“You’re kinda brilliant, you know that?” Noct asks him. A small sun flares into being behind Prompto’s chest and hangs there for a moment, warm and bright, until Noct ruins the effect by adding, “how the hell did you fail first year calculus?”

“Uh, probably because reverse engineering doesn’t require finding any derivatives?” Prompto says sarcastically. “Or maybe because they have nothing in common?”

“Hey, I’m just saying,” Noct tells him, mock-serious. “Have you ever heard of an idiot savant—”

“Aaand I’ve heard enough.”

Noct grins at him before he lopes back to the front of the pack, and Prompto grins helplessly back. Because, well, that’s why he’s here, isn’t it? That’s why a plebe like him is stuck scrabbling around in the dark of some hellcave, getting chided by the world’s _least_ edgy assassin. He’s here to make Noct smile.

...okay, that’s probably the lamest thing he’s ever said, and he didn’t even say it out loud. He just means that — even when the going gets tough, and the monsters get nasty, and the _scrrr-scrrr-scrrrch_ gets so loud that he feels like it’s scraping over his own _spine_ , at least he knows that Noct has his back. It’s a nightmare, but it’s _their_ nightmare. He doesn’t have to go it alone.

Then, with a sound like a pickup truck plowing through a sabertusk, a steel pipe the size of a school bus collides with his stomach and whips him into the dark.

The force of it knocks the breath from his lungs in one hard _whff_. A terrible pressure bears down on his chest; Prompto can feel his ribs _scrape_ and _crunch_ and he can’t see, _he can’t see_ , his eyes sting with tears or maybe blood. Through the smeary haze of his vision he can see the beam of his flashlight dancing wildly over the walls, flashing past mud-colored scales the size of dinner plates. The light bounces toward the ceiling and Prompto’s blind; his head thuds against the stone floor and he closes his eyes, abruptly nauseous.

When he opens them again, the circle of light is shining off of dead white eyes in a pallid face, _inches from his_ , with a gnashing maw of shark’s teeth so big it could fit his whole head inside. One bite to pop his skull like a grape, two to grind it to pulpy shards; by the time Noct found him he’d be a heap of wet meat and the last thing he saw before he died wouldn’t be Noct’s tearstained face, it’d be this — _thing_. He’s vaguely aware that he’s screaming or possibly crying or possibly pissing or possibly all of the above and there’s this distant, barely awake corner of his mind watching from far enough to observe that it will be kinda funny, when they unearth Prompto’s headless corpse and find out that he peed his pants. But not really that funny.

“ _Noct_ ,” Prompto either whispers or wails. He closes his eyes and tries to conjure Noct’s face in his mind, storm-blue eyes and that boy band pout, but all he can see is the afterimage of the _thing_ , the leering ravening thing that is going to kill him and eat him or maybe the other way around and he’ll never see anything else but its face ever again and oh, _astrals_ —

Even through his eyelids, he can see the flare of blue light.

When his eyes fly open, Noct is mid-warp, his edges still shuddering a little, outlined in silver and framed by a cascade of blue light, and the weirdest thing of all is that it almost looks like he’s been crying.

Noct’s fingers close around the handle of his blade, lodged into the cheek of the ( _thing the horrible thing_ ) and the blood that seeps from the wound is thick and black as tar. When the monster opens its mouth to snap at Noct’s outstretched arm, the fresh seam in its face tears raggedly open, douses Prompto’s chest with hot black bile.

Prompto’s mouth falls open to — call out a warning? Cry some more? But Noct is already moving, kicking out with one leg and catapulting away. The crushing pressure on Prompto’s (cracked? shattered?) ribs eases as the monster’s attention shifts, locks onto Noct.

Prompto is out of the fight. Until someone slips him a potion, he’s not moving. All he can do is watch Noct and his blade dance with a snake bigger than a regulation school bus.

He doesn’t watch very carefully. He’s lightheaded, and his vision is kinda coming in and out. He’s only vaguely aware of a clatter of noise, and later, a hand on his face.

Then the pain is replaced by a certain mentholated strangeness, a cold that overwhelms and then replaces the ragged ache of his wounds before fading into nothing.

There’s something warm under his head. He flinches away in reflexive panic before he realizes that it’s Noct, it’s just Noct, who brushes his blood-spattered hair back from his forehead with trembling hands. He looks like he’s been crying.

“Noct,” Prompto says muzzily. “...you okay?”

It’s impossible to tell if the sound Noct chokes out is a laugh or a sob.

“Astrals,” he says miserably. “Yes. Obviously I’m fine. I thought—” he starts to add, sounding strangled, and then seems to run out of air. Prompto watches him seriously, takes stock of his memories. He got separated from the others, and then…

“I’m not dead, am I?” Prompto asks.

“No, Prom, you’re not dead.”

“Phew,” Prompto says. It’s a big relief. “That’s a big relief,” he says out loud, and Noct snuffles.

“Tell me about it,” he says raggedly. “I really—” He cuts himself off, starts again. “You can’t go and die on me, okay?” he says.

“Is that a royal decree?”

“ _Yes_!” Noct insists. “You’re—” He grimaces, looks away. “You’re only here for me, Prom,” he says, more quietly. “So if anything happens to you, it’s _my_ fault, and I can’t—” His lips thin miserably. “If you die because of me, you’ll ruin my whole life, okay? You want that on your conscience?”

“Not sure I’ll have much of a conscience if I’m dead,” Prompto points out reasonably, but adds, “but still no.”

“ _Good_ ,” Noct says fiercely. His left hand is still carding through Prompto’s hair, even though it’s probably stiff and sticky with tarry monster gunk. Maybe Prompto should be embarrassed but he’s much too tired, so instead he closes his eyes and leans into the touch like a lovesick cat.

When he looks up again, Noct’s eyes are squeezed shut, his usually invisible emotions shockingly vivid on his face: guilt, dread, helplessness, terror, and above it all an unbearable fondness, so urgent it looks like it hurts.

“Noct,” Prompto says breathlessly.

Noct's eyes meet his and it's like a lightning strike, like a slap in the face with none of the sting. His stomach lurches; his heart clatters in his ribs like someone's set fire to his blood, filled his chest with champagne. Noct looks at him and Prompto looks back and realizes that in all his life, he's never felt so awake.

“Is Prompto all right?” he hears Iggy call from the shadows, and it’s like turning off a light: Noct’s face shutters, turns smooth and impassive. Prompto scowls.

“ _No_ ,” he calls back, petulant. “I’m dead. If only you’d listened when I wanted to talk about that sound, maybe I'd still be alive today."

“Charming,” Ignis sniffs, lightstepping into the room. “I might have guessed that you'd make for an unusually talkative ghost.”

In spite of his tone, Prompto can see guilt in Iggy’s face, which he finds faintly mollifying.

"Poor Prompto," Gladio says solemnly, as he follows Iggy into the chamber. "Sometimes I feel like I can still hear his voice."

“RIP in peace,” Noct agrees, matching Gladio’s expression.

“If you’re quite finished?” Ignis asks icily. “We’ve located the runestone. I’d suggest that we hasten to it and return to the world above.”

“Seconded!” Prompto puts in. Gladio reaches down and hoists him to his feet with one hand.

“Glad you’re alive, kid,” he tells Prompto gruffly, and then — apparently having exhausted his capacity for sentiment for the week — cracks his knuckles and grins. “Let’s get to work.”


	3. party shuffle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iris joins the party; Gladio leaves it.

Noct gets Ramuh’s number or whatever, and the gang goes on an Imperial-base-smashing spree. After everything they’ve been through, it’s pretty cathartic, watching the gods literally descend from the heavens to rain hellfire on their enemies. It’s encouraging, too. For the first time since Insomnia fell, Prompto starts to wonder if they maybe really _do_ have a chance.

Once they’ve gotten their fill, it’s time to head to Cape Caem — this time with one extra passenger in tow.

Traveling with Gladio’s kid sister is the best, actually. Prompto’s gotten so used to the guys’ relentless ribbing that he forgot how easy it is to hang out with someone who’s just _nice_ , without having to hide it behind a bunch of chest-thumping machismo. It doesn’t hurt that she’s cute, too, tiny and spunky, like a rowdy little chipmunk that can kick your ass.

On their jaunt through Cleigne, Iris is all bright smiles except for sometimes, when she thinks no one is looking and subsides into melancholy silence. When pressed, she’ll deny that it ever happened. Noct always takes her at face value, because at the end of the day, Noct is a pretty straightforward guy. But Prompto can smell the lies on her breath. Before he met Noct, he spent his entire young life hiding his loneliness. Iris is good, but she hasn’t had as much practice. When she goes quiet, he can see loneliness bleed out of her.

Who could blame her? They’ve all been uprooted from their homes, but Prompto had his favorite person (and okay, sure, his two second-favorite people) to catch him. Between them, they managed to build their own little home, a self-contained pocket of kinship and belonging that follows wherever they go. It’s comforting. It’s exhilarating. It’s more family than he’s ever known in his life. It’s easily the most fun he’s ever had.

Their lives are dangerous, of course. If he had a choice, Prompto would definitely opt to send the whole team home, where they wouldn’t have to spend quite so many hours of each day bracing themselves for a gruesome death. But since that’s not an option, there’s basically no place on Eos he’d rather be.

As far as he can tell, Iris is like him. She likes to feel useful; thrives on being part of something larger. Now she’s got it all — with a big red expiration date looming at the end of the highway.

The point is, he gets Iris. He likes her! He thinks they could be pretty good friends, actually. He probably wouldn’t even mind if she really _did_ join the party, like she keeps “joking” about, even though he knows Gladio would never allow it.

But.

….She’s kinda cutting into his time with Noct.

Iggy and Gladio are morning people. They usually go to bed as soon as dinner’s cooked and training’s done. Afterwards, he and Noct linger by the fire for an hour or so longer, playing stupid games on their phones, or looking through the photos Prompto took that day. With the night air cold on their backs and the fire hot on their faces, they listen to the wood _pop_ and do absolutely nothing productive. It’s a nice way to unwind from the life-or-death stakes of their day to day, pretending for a while that their lives are still their own.

Now that he thinks about it, there’s a lot of time he spends just with Noct, normally. Every time they get to a new city, the two of them sneak off to see the sights while Iggy and Gladio are still taking stock of their inventory. Even when they’re just romping around the countryside, half the time it’s him and Noct racing their chocobos ahead, or lagging behind while Prompto tries to get the perfect shot of the way the sunset paints the mountains rose gold.

With Iris around, they still do all that stuff, but… plus one.

Iris sticks to Noct like glue, or like a teenage girl nursing a raging crush. If Noct falls behind, she does the same; if he races ahead, she races after. Prompto can hardly blame her because really, who wouldn’t have a crush on Noct? Prompto’s too self-aware to judge Iris for something he’s equally guilty of. So he doesn’t _blame_ her, obviously. It’s just that watching her orbit around Noct hits a little too close to home, to the point that kinda makes him cringe. Is _he_ that obvious? Is this how the others feel when they look at him?

Fortunately, Noct seems to be totally oblivious to Iris’ interest, so Prompto’s safe from Noct, at least.

Less fortunately, Noct is weirdly kinda sweet with her.

With most people, Noct’s wit tends toward biting, but he’s gentle with Iris. It makes Prompto feel… he’s not sure. Warm and fond, to see Noct softening to meet someone who needs his softness? Encouraged, to know that _he_ gets to see a less filtered, truer version of Noctis? Definitely not jealous.

...Maybe just a tiny bit jealous, he admits to himself, watching Iris throw her arms around Noct’s neck to congratulate him on a fight well-fought. Which is insane, because Noct is _engaged_. To _neither_ of them. If Prompto should be jealous of anyone, it’s Noct’s soon-to-be wife, the Lady Lunafreye. But the Oracle’s not the one clinging to Noct’s back like a sweet, giggling little limpet. (And probably never will be, now that he thinks about it. She seems like she’s got too much gravitas to do much clinging.)

“That was amazing!” Iris is gushing, literally vibrating with excitement. “When that mandrake was jumping toward you and you warped straight _through_ it? And when you nailed that big crab with a frost beam, _schhh_ - _wham_ and then you _shattered_ it, holy shit.” She trails off, overwhelmed to the point that she’s left faintly dazed, and then recovers. “That was _amazing_!!”

“It’s no big,” Noct says, shrugging. “Everything’s easier with magic. I can’t take a hit like your brother can.”

“I wouldn’t know, cause you never _had_ to!” she shoots back. “Those guys couldn’t land a hit on you!”

“Yeah, yeah, we get it,” Gladio grumbles. “Noct’s the best thing since Cup Noodle, and your big brother’s a heap of garula dung.”

“Aw, don’t worry Gladdy,” Iris tells him sweetly, patting him on the elbow. “I’m sure if you practice, one day you can look cool too!”

“You’re breakin’ my heart, kid.”

“And I’m pretty sure that expression’s not about Cup Noodle,” she points out.

“What, you think _bread_ matters more than Cup Noodle?”

Iris considers that.

“Well, as a cultural touchstone—”

“I’ve heard enough,” Gladio tells her, and hoists her over his shoulder.

“Gladdy!” she shrieks. “Put me _down_! Noct, make him put me down!”

“Put her down,” Noct says obediently, without looking up. Prompto snorts.

“This is abuse of power,” Gladio complains as he puts her down. “The power of kings is for protecting the world, not coddling my kid sister.”

“I thought it was mostly for summoning big glowy spears,” Prompto contributes helpfully. Noct glances up from his plate to smirk at Prompto, eyes crinkling a little.

“The glowy spears are actually just a bonus," he deadpans. “The old kings were mainly into coddling kid sisters.”

“You learn something new every day,” Prompto says, nodding wisely. “Sounds like you’ve really been wasting your potential.”

###

It would be easier if he could just tell her the truth, and they could bond over it. _Hey Iris, I noticed you have a huge, irreversible crush on Noct. Same, actually! You wanna talk about it?_ But since Iris can never be found more than six feet from Noct at any given moment, it’s probably not gonna happen.

Whatever. It doesn’t really matter. Who says she’d even want his friendship, anyway? Iris is an Amicitia, the youngest in a line that’s served the crown for generations, and Prompto’s some kid who sat behind Noct in math class. Why would she care what he thinks? He shouldn’t even be here in the first place.

If anything, she should resent him. What right does he have to this life — this community — when she was born into this world, and still she’s been left all alone? Why should some useless peasant get her spot in—

“Hey,” a bright voice cuts in, stopping his spiral in its tracks. Prompto glances up to find Iris standing over him. “I’d love to see your pictures, if you don’t mind showing me!” she says earnestly. “The ones you took today?”

She’s leaning hopefully toward the camera in his hands, the fingers of her right hand fidgeting with her left. That’s honest interest he sees in her eyes, but there’s something else behind it: concern?

 _Can you read my thoughts?_ he thinks loudly, just in case. After the last two months, he’s not sure there’s anything that could surprise him.

There’s no answer, thank the Six. Prompto grins up at her, feeling abruptly fond. She’s obviously a great kid, and he’s obviously projecting.

“Of course, dude!” he tells her, shifting over to make room on the boulder he’s sitting on. “I got a great one of you where Noct is phasing _through_ you, and you’re all framed in blue light — you’re gonna love it.”

Iris’ face lights up, and Prompto remembers that Iris is the best, actually.

###

Right after they drop Iris at Cape Caem, Gladio skips out on them.

It’s the most disorienting thing that’s ever happened. They’re, like, seconds away from leaving when Gladio finally brings it up. Iggy’s got one hand on the driver’s side door, and Noct is already curled up in the back, trying to fall asleep before the car rumbles into motion. Prompto’s just sauntering toward his own seat when he realizes that Gladio’s not following.

“What’s up, big guy?” he asks cheerfully. “You gotta pee?”

Gladio looks straight past him.

“Noct,” he says roughly. “We gotta talk.”

And then he just — peaces out.

The most frustrating part is that Noct just lets him go. He doesn’t even ask why Gladio is leaving, or what he’s doing, or when he’ll be back. He just nods solemnly and tells his shield that he trusts him.

It’s all very _cool_ , very stoic and rugged and manly, but also… What the fuck? What does he mean, he’s _going solo for a while_? How long is a while? _Where_ is he going, exactly? And what the hell is Prompto supposed to do when a behemoth is charging toward his best friend and _Noct doesn’t have his Shield_?

 _Can_ the Shield just leave, even? Isn’t he supposed to, like… protect the king, pretty much exclusively? Prompto’s aim is getting better; he’s picked up all kinds of toys on their smash-tour through the Empire’s Lucian bases, but even an upgraded grav well can’t stop a stampeding garula in its tracks. Prompto only knows one person who can.

Oh, sure, Noct is unbelievable in a fight, with or without backup. But every time Noct faces something strong enough to topple him, Gladio is there, steady as a brick wall, ready to step in the way. What would happen if he wasn’t there, and Noct just… took that hit? The prospect makes Prompto feel kinda dizzy, like he’s standing in the belly of an airship, looking down at the ground below.

They’re about to drive over enemy lines. The mythic metal that they’re hunting will almost certainly be found at the bottom of some horrible hole in the ground that’s absolutely _squirming_ with daemons, and their strongest fighter just… opted out.

(Okay, so Noct is technically the actual strongest, probably, at least when it comes to sheer offense. But he’s squishy — he’s a mage, not a tank.)

Prompto can feel the panic rising. He can’t — can’t figure this out, can’t figure out what they’ll do if a monster charges Noct and no matter how much lead and venom he and Iggy pump into it, it doesn’t slow down. Is this a good idea? Shouldn’t they maybe just wait for Gladio?

“Hey,” Noct says. Prompto’s eyes dart toward him.

He was surprised when Noct insisted on driving to the Vesperpool. Now that some more time has passed, he’s decided that Noct was probably giving Iggy time to process. Iggy is their tactician, the diligent strategist who sets their course, and he’s just had his trustiest chess piece taken away. It’s beyond obvious that Iggy feels responsible for them — both for their effectiveness as a squad and for their ongoing survival. He feeds them, he patches their socks, and he keeps them alive. Without Gladio, that last one will probably be a lot more difficult.

Abruptly, Prompto is overwhelmed with a flood of gratitude. He can’t imagine how many things Ignis has to store in his brain every day: objectives, locations, enemy weaknesses, available ingredients, remaining curatives… Just thinking about it is enough to make his head spin. So even though Prompto’s still definitely freaking out, he’s pretty sure that Iggy’s even more thrown. And Iggy’s _way_ better at thinking things out than he is. If Ignis thought this was a death march, he’d stop them from even setting foot in that swamp. Which means that Iggy thinks they’re up to the task. So… maybe they _can_ handle this, actually?

“Hey,” Noct says again.

“Oh! Sorry dude, I was zoning out. What’s up?”

“Put on some music,” Noct says quietly.

“Oh, yeah, definitely! You got it.”

It’s a long drive — long enough for Prompto’s anxiety to surge up (again) only to be quelled (again) by his faith in his companions. The whole episode leaves him feeling kind of lazy and fond. He really does trust these guys, enough to weather the loss of the team’s best defensive player without totally losing his cool. He trusts Ignis’ ability to assess the threat, and trusts the conclusion that Iggy must have reached: that they can make it through alive; that they’ll be okay on their own. And he trusts Noct, too, who is always there in the nick of time and who's never let him die, not even once.

Prompto stretches, rearing back on his haunches. The wind whips at his palms and buffets his face and he finds himself grinning into it, more than a little wildly. He feels thoroughly awake, hyper aware of the sun on his neck, the wind on his face, the smell of spruce rising on the horizon, and Noct beside him, close enough to touch. Even from here, Prompto can feel the heat of him. Noct has always been like that: a tangible, larger-than-life presence, like he’s got his own private gravitational field.

Prompto checks his wind-mussed hair in the rearview mirror, twitches a stray lock back into place.

Sitting elbow to elbow like this, with the road peeling away behind them, it’s easy to imagine that there’s no one in the backseat at all — that it’s just him and Noct, coasting down the highway under an infinite sky.

A herd of anaks canters by on the left-hand side. Noct darts a grin at him, bright with lazy exuberance, and for just a second, it’s like Prompto’s glancing into another universe: one where he can watch Noct look at him like that and respond by just _reaching_ for him, catching Noct’s hand in his, flopping over to bump Noct’s shoulder with his forehead. He can picture the look of fond, lazy startlement on Noct’s face; the way he would keep one hand on the wheel while the other reached over to mess up Prompto’s hair. It would feel so easy, so comfortable. It always does, with Noct.

But Prompto can’t do that, because he lives in _this_ world. It's not even worth thinking about. It's probably actively masochistic to think about, actually.

Prompto changes the music to something with a harsher beat and turns his attention toward the road.

###

By the time they park, the sun is already squatting low on the horizon, turning the light thin and grey. Fortunately, there’s a haven right next to the parking spot.

“Let us make camp,” Ignis suggests, somewhat heavily, (and Prompto realizes with a jolt that Iggy hasn’t said a word this entire time). “It’s nearly dark, and I suspect we would all benefit from a proper respite before we set out in earnest.”

“Seconded!” Prompto agrees.

“Then it’s unanimous,” Noct says wryly.

So they do.

###

It’s a different vibe when it’s just the three of them.

Gladio’s rough and rowdy, so Prompto’s not surprised to see that the energy around the fire that night is a little softer, a little gentler. He _is_ a little surprised to realize that it’s noticeably less fun. Once he thinks about it, though, it seems kinda obvious. Gladio’s a tough guy, but he loves to have a good time, and he loves to share it around. He finds life constantly funny; he laughs easily and often, and he’s self-assured about it in a way that Prompto can’t be.

 _That’s a lot of abstraction_ , Prompto tells himself, _just to say you miss Gladio_.

It is noticeably quieter without him, and Prompto’s having a harder-than-average time trying to break the silence. So when Prompto notices Ignis setting up for dinner, he pops out of his seat.

“Do you want,” he starts, and then flounders for a moment. “...help?”

Iggy looks at him like he might look at a dog that’s performed a very impressive trick.

“Goodness,” he says drily. “I’m certainly not falling to pieces, if that’s what concerns you.”

“It’s not!” protests Prompto, even though it kinda is. “I just, uh… I dunno. I just felt like helping. Is that so suspicious?”

“Indubitably, yes,” Ignis confirms. Before Prompto can sit back down, though, Iggy offers up a wan smile. “But it’s a suspicious offer that I’ll gladly accept. To start, might you endeavor to light the fire?”

###

There’s more room in the tent now that it’s just the three of them. They could probably spread out more, but they don’t. Prompto takes his usual spot in the middle; Noct lays out his bedroll directly to his right, and Ignis to his left. No one points out the fact that they could afford to spread out more. The Vesperpool is cold and damp, with a lingering chill that sits heavy in his bones. It’s nice to roll over and feel the warmth of another body against his.

Snug in his sleeping bag, Prompto sighs. Back in the Crown City, he and Noct used to — not _cuddle_ , obviously, but... lean into each other, a little. Sometimes when they stretched out to watch a movie on Noct’s couch, Prompto would hook his knees over Noct’s shins, or Noct’s feet would tap idly at Prompto’s hip. And when Prompto slept over, he usually woke up to find himself draped over Noct, a little. It wasn’t real, and it definitely wasn’t anything he could get too attached to, but it was nice.

In the tent, though, they’re always zipped into their sleeping bags, individually wrapped like fun-sized candy bars. It's a bummer, but Prompto's used to it. Most nights, being able to stretch his legs out and feel someone solid against the soles of his feet is all the comfort he needs.

Tomorrow, they’ll descend into a horrible hole in the ground, and Prompto will have to hit so hard and fast that none of the daemons can even get _close_ to his best friend. The thought is enough to make him feel slightly sick.

Tonight, though, Prompto is warm, and he can hear Noct’s breath going slow and even as he slips into slumber. It’s enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it was such a slow chapter… i wanted to finish this one off with a dungeon crawl thru steyliff grove, but i can feel my motivation petering out & figured you'd appreciate an uneventful update slightly more than no update at all. probably gonna take a short break from this series to see if I can write any better when I’m not trying to force it, so…. see y’all around, I guess ✌️


	4. under and over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The guys take on Steyliff Grove.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclosure: this is the world’s shortest update (but pls don’t hate me my heart can’t take it). i’ll explain why in the end notes, but tldr: there is more to this chapter, but it lives somewhere else.

One thing he’ll say for Steyliff Grove: it’s not just another horrible hole in the ground.

Solheim’s burial site is easily the coolest thing he’s ever seen. For reasons Prompto can’t even _begin_ to comprehend, the dungeon features some kind of — upside down lake? Like they’ve managed to invert gravity in a localized field, but only as applied to water. When they first walk inside and find themselves looking up at the underside of a lake without drowning, Prompto has half a mind to drop his weapons and spend the next hour figuring out how it works. If he upends his canteen, will the water fall up? Does it apply to solutions, or only pure H2O? What about colloids?

Unfortunately, they definitely don’t have time to deconstruct the completely world-changing tech that apparently survived the past thousand years without losing any functionality. They’ve got mythril to find. And they don’t want to waste their tour guide’s time.

(No one was surprised when Ardyn met them at the mouth of the dungeon. The weirdly charming, overtly sinister Empire exec has made a habit of showing up when they need him most, and rescuing them for reasons that he does not see fit to share with the class.

They _were_ a little surprised when Ardyn offered them an escort.)

“Heads!” shouts Aranea, and Prompto ducks just in time to send one half of an imp hurtling over his head. When he straightens, he can see the other half slowly crumpling in front of her. A moment later it’s gone, leaving only a flicker of purple flame and a strong waft of sulfur.

He also spots another imp -- this one with both its arms -- closing in on the back of her neck.

“Back at you!” he shouts. She drops to a crouch, and Prompto drills 15g of lead through the thing's bulbous, slime-slick skull.

“Nice shootin, Hawkeye!” she laughs, utterly unbothered, because Aranea is fucking _cool as hell_ actually. She’s easily the biggest badass he’s ever seen, with confidence and easy, offhanded charisma to rival Gladio’s.

“Less talking, more fighting!” Iggy says tightly as a pair of reapers rises from the floor, so Prompto shuts his mouth and gets to work.

###

They don’t die in Steyliff Grove. That’s about all Prompto can say for it. Easily the most beautiful, awe-inspiring dungeon they've ever seen, and Prompto would still trade the whole thing for a fistful of flour and a kick to the shins.

At least Aranea offers them a lift back to civilization. They take her up on it. Aranea may be Empire, but she doesn’t suck. It’s something to think about.

###

Before they hop in the airship, Noct takes a couple hours to catch some fish, because he’s a very sick man with a very real problem. (Who drags themself out of a quetzelcoatl nest and immediately goes, _wow, I'd love to stand on a dock in the rain for two hours_?).

...Prompto goes with him, obviously. Where else would he go?

“Say cheese!” he says cheerfully as the prince hoists his latest catch from the water. His heart flutters when Noct’s gaze whips toward his shutter, his eyes the exact vivid blue-grey of clouds before a storm.

Prompto likes photography aesthetically, obviously, as an art form, but he can’t deny that part of the appeal comes from the noisy, terrified corner of his mind that constantly assures him that his happiness is temporary; that he’s dispensable, replaceable. He’s always hated endings, and change, and goodbyes. When he's at his happiest, he finds himself wishing that he could stop time: freeze the scene around him and cast it in steel so he never ever has to let it go.

With photography, he kind of can. By taking a picture, he can freeze a moment in time and hold it in his hands. It’s a kind of magic: forging artifacts that unlock memories long after they should have faded away. Even if his best friend outgrows him, or learns the truth and pushes him away, Prompto will always have Noct’s giddy, disbelieving smile after he’s landed a fish, and Noct’s exasperation as Prompto pulls him into another selfie, and the blaze of purple behind Noct’s eyes when he blasts a demon to flash-frozen shards. In this way, at least, Prompto gets to keep him.

“Did you see that?” Noct asks, exuberant. “Did you get it on camera??”

Prompto grins at him and remembers that he doesn’t have to subsist on his artifacts, not yet. He’s got Noct with him _here_ , now.

“I totally didn’t,” he admits, clasping his hands in contrition. “I assume you almost caught a catoblepas, but it got away?”

“Wow, how’d you know?” Noct deadpans. Prompto can see that he’s sulking a little, so he sidles in closer.

“C’mon, one more fish,” he wheedles. “I’ll snap the next one the moment it breaks the surface.”

“You’d better,” Noct huffs. But Prompto can see him smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok, SO: I actually wrote a fairly long version of this chapter, but decided that the rest of it would make more sense as a separate series, since it swerves into the territory of plot-divergence. but then today i realized it would be kinda shitty of me to drop the next update somewhere you won’t see it if you’re, like, subscribed to this series, so i thought i should give you this micro-update and drop a link to the rest! 
> 
> the rest: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29746815/chapters/73168467 (idk if links work in ao3 notes, if not, it's at the top of my profile titled "putting off the inevitable")
> 
> if this is a dick move or feels like "cross-promotion" or something, lmk and i'll just delete this lil baby chapter! not tryna be annoying, just didn't wanna leave yall hanging. (oh, and sorry to the few of you who've already read that other one... i guess my gift to you is the easter egg of knowing that these two stories exist in the same timeline? i'm currently writing the next update of that one, so i promise u still get new content soon.) 
> 
> thanks for your understanding! 🙏


End file.
